Juvendus Delinquus
by DarkBeta
Summary: AU A belated 5th year fic. After being cursed by an unknown enemy, Snape hides out in absolutely the least likely location.
1. Chapter 1

(In addition to all the other people i'm not, i am certainly not J. Rowling! Nor do i have a ghost of a claim to her characters or universe. I am but a poor harmless trespasser, trying to shelter in my favorite fantasies from the cutting winds of the mundane world!)

Snape had to admit the curse had been ably and subtly administered. Weariness on Friday afternoon -- well, wasn't he always weary after another week of attempting to teach dunderheads the exact art of potion-making? A few aches on Saturday morning -- nothing a dose of his own soothing syrup couldn't mend. Not until he looked into the mirror in the instructor's break room (returning to class without assuring oneself that one's robes were in good order was never wise) and saw the sudden silver threads in his hair, did he recognize the Senescens Volens.

The wards defending Hogwarts were too well-woven for the curse to have reached him from afar. No, he had his fellow employees to thank for this one. Or possibly the students. Most of the fifth-year Ravenclaws had the skill for it. Quite a few of his own Slytherins had probably seen it used before they ever arrived at school. Senescens Volens had been popular among a certain clique, providing a miserable and frequently untraceable death.

Motive didn't diminish the pool of suspects. His fellow Death-Eater conspirators might judge him (incorrectly) too enviably high in Voldemort's favor, or (correctly) too great a risk to their goals. His fellow conspirators of the Order of the Phoenix might judge him (incorrectly) too great a risk to their goals, or (correctly) too enviably high in Dumbledore's favor. (Snape wondered every time he saw the Headmaster how he justified trust in so suspect a character as himself.) The culprit could be one of the instructors he'd slighted or insulted, one of the students he'd slighted or insulted, one of the House Elves he'd slighted or insulted . . . .

(House Elves were not as universally reliable as the Wizarding World assumed. Lucius Malfoy could testify to it.)

Unfortunately for his unknown enemy, the little known Juvendus Delinquus potion was the ideal antidote to Senescens Volens. He'd be busy well into Sunday brewing it, though.

So much for more pleasant plans, supervising that ass Potter's latest detention. The potent odor of Gadarene muskmelon survived even desiccation. A few hours spent chopping the dried rind, and the boy would find his closest friends keeping their distance. However that gang of troublemakers was certain to draw detention again. The rind would keep.

As for the curse, when Dumbledore returned from his Ministry visit on Monday, Severus would apprise him of the situation. They would discover then what information might be gleaned from it.

A little before midnight on Sunday, measuring yew berries with clawed fingers and a shaking hand, Severus admitted (to himself) that he had made a mistake. The Senescens was proceeding far more swiftly than any variant of the spell he'd ever encountered. It could be a wholly new version of the old favorite, adjusted to render useless old countermeasures. In other words, the potion might be ineffective.

Dumbledore was due back at four in the morning. An ungodly hour. If the potion failed, Severus would die of old age by about 2:30. By 10:30am, the hour of his earliest class, it was possible that someone would notice his absence.

Adder skin, chopped acorns, pine-needles . . . had he added the blades of new grass yet? His bleared eyes couldn't tell. An essential ingredient, and he had no time to brew a second dose. Severus dropped them in.

Honey, wine and roses being among the ingredients, the potion was more palatable than some he'd had to swallow. His hand shook as he measured the dose, but that was infirmity and not agitation. His enemy had erred, if they thought he feared death.

The manner of that death, yes. He had seen enough of the Death Eaters' work for that. The acceleration of the Senescens robbed it of much of its terror though. In a few hours he would be dead, or he would be whole. He could not bring himself to decide which was the more desirable outcome.

He looked about the dark acrid stillroom, the jewel-toned bottles of potions gleaming in the candlelight, the retort and alembic and dozens of customized cauldrons. This was the only place he'd been happy. He raised his beaker in ironic salute, and drank.


	2. Chapter 2

Hagrid would gladly have brought a carriage to the Leaky Cauldron, but Dumbledore was too weary to face even that short a journey. He used the Floo Network to reach a hearth in Madam Pomfrey's wing. The walk from there to his own office was only a few steps, if the stairways co-operated. They generally obliged the headmaster. The House Elves would have a mug of cocoa ready, and a plate of biscuits. He was hoping for ginger crisps, or hobnobs.

The meeting at the Ministry had not been entirely fruitless. Fudge was adamant in his refusal to acknowledge disaster, but many of his subordinates were less stubborn. Information would continue to flow, though in circuitous channels.

"Headmaster."

Not another student up and about at this hour? Did no-one in this school ever sleep? He thought first of the unprecedentedly durable Potter, or perhaps one of the Weasley boys, but the voice was not so familiar. A dark-haired boy in robes rather too large for him stepped out of the shadows alongside the fireplace.

He was not a current student. Aside a werewolf and a fugitive, very few people would have recognized the boy at all.

"Ah, Snape. You seem to have found the weekend refreshing."

The House Elves brought a second mug of cocoa. Snape sniffed it, looked nauseated, and set it aside. Dumbledore let the heat from his own mug warm his chilled hands. The world got colder as one aged, or perhaps it was the times. He often thought how little he'd mind, when his time came to go out like Fawkes in a blaze of glory.

He was letting his mind drift. Severus, poor boy, needed assistance.

"Minerva, Poppy and I can handle your classes for a week or so. The students shouldn't be too far behind when you're able to take up the reins again."

"It is a bad time to interrupt the lesson plan. Undine Grapple has made real progress in syrups and possets, and Hotchkiss Minor is just getting the hang of the alembic."

Snape's voice was resigned though.

"Now, as for the malady itself . . . ."

"A stupid clutch-headed mistake. A first-year Hufflepuff could have done better!"

"You were in deteriorating physical condition at the time, and further stressed by the incipient demonstration of your mortality. A minor error seems forgiveable."

"People may forgive," Snape said, though he seemed dubious. "Potions don't."

The probability of chaos in wandless magic was always high. Transformations could be stopped, reversed, or renewed, but a potion either worked as intended . . . or it didn't. An error once made was irretrievable.

Nonetheless, did every potion-master have to be such a perfectionist? The times he'd listened to Nicholas rant for two hours or more, over something as minor as preheating the cauldron for only fifteen minutes instead of twenty!

"You believe you can brew an antidote to your antidote, though?"

"Of course. If the perpetrator of the intitial curse allows me the time. He showed a challenging ingenuity. A second attempt might be more effective."

Snape's approval was evident. The only thing that could offend him in his assassination was incompetence.

"Ah, but you have taken yourself quite effectively from his purview. Severus Snape is -- temporarily -- removed from the world. No personal or political grudges accrue to a fifth-year transfer student by the name of, say, Hilary Hence?"

"Not Hilary. Anything but Hilary."

"I leave that to your discretion. While your erstwhile assailant tries to discover the success of his strategy, you may concentrate without interference on finding him out. Most satisfactory. The only question is, in which House do we lodge young Hence? Putting you into the House familiar with you as its Head might create an unacceptable risk of discovery."

"This late in the year, alliances are set. I'd have to take out one of the leaders, or spend so much time fetching and carrying that both potion-making and detection would be impossible. And if I did displace a leader the balance would be thrown off again when I, er, Hence leaves. The repercussions would last through Christmas. I can't do that to my students."

It was an interesting insight into the workings of Salazar's House.

"I expect you'll be safe in Hufflepuff, then."

"Not Hufflepuff! Not if you want to keep the little duffers around," Snape warned, flexing his wand hand like a duellist expecting the signal to start.

"We can't expect Hence's situation to remain unexamined in Ravenclaw, even setting aside the risk that you'd be placed beside your nemesis. You said a few of the Ravenclaw students might have the skill for so advanced a curse. Is there a similar level of ability in Gryffindor?"

Snape snorted.

"I see no signs of it."

"Then our decision is obvious. The two Houses least likely to hold your would-be assassin, Hufflepuff and Gryffindor, will also be suitably incurious about a late arrival. Since you have already expressed an aversion to Hufflepuff . . . ."

"You are, of course, joking."

That withering glare was more effective from an older man. On a boy of fifteen it just looked sulky. Aside from some white streaks in his dark hair, Snape was the image of the Hogwarts student he'd been once. Dumbledore hid a smile. He reached for the Sorting Hat, on the shelf behind his desk.

"We could try a more official method.

"No!"

Snape looked more panicked than when he discussed his close call with Senescens Volens. Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. Silence and a gently inquiring expression could be as useful as Veritaserum.

"That damnable object wanted to put me with those blowhards the first time around. I had to tell it I'd sooner walk back to London along the train tracks than spend one night in Gryffindor, before it was willing to Sort me where I belonged."

"It is our choices that define our lives," Dumbledore mused.

He regretted speaking aloud when he saw Snape flinch. He hadn't meant to be unkind. Of course Snape was thinking about the choices he'd made that were fearfully wrong, and not the ones that were astonishingly right. The boy closed his eyes. He looked as weary as Dumbledore felt.

"Do what you choose, Headmaster. You will anyhow."


	3. Chapter 3

Harry stared at the dark ceiling, and wished he could sleep. Even if he dreamed.

He didn't mind the nightmares, if they weren't the kind that made his scar hurt. He didn't mind the way the other Houses, and some of the younger Gryffindors, looked at him sideways in the corridors. Rita Skeeter had kept her pledge so far, but articles about the . . . eccentricities . . . of the famous Harry Potter were still popular. Why would anyone think he had a pet monkey?

Well, he did mind. But he minded more knowing he didn't belong.

Hogwarts and Gryffindor were the closest he could remember to having a real home. They were probably the closest he'd ever get. People Voldemort hated, like his parents, didn't last long. Once he graduated he'd lose the protection of Hogwarts, and maybe Dumbledore too.

McGonagall kept telling them to think about their future careers, but Harry couldn't see the point. He wasn't stupid enough to fall in love and marry either. Honestly, his dad should have known better.

So Gryffindor was it. But you had to be brave to belong to Gryffindor, and sometime over the summer Harry had lost the trick of it.

He'd expected to die from the Basilisk's bite, in the Chamber of Secrets. He didn't remember being afraid then. Tom Riddle was gone, and Ginny was safe. What was it Dumbledore had said, the year before?

"To the well-informed mind, death is just another adventure."

Death was Cedric's staring face and graceless sprawl. Death was his arm, cooling and stiffening as Harry clutched it. Death was Cedric's father sobbing, all his pride silenced. Death was Cho Chang, grim and distracted on the Quiddich field, and the Hufflepuff team floundering like duffers. Death was real, and final, and Harry was terribly afraid of it.

Nobody had noticed yet. He'd pulled off stunts in Quiddich practice that made even Fred and George flinch. Madame Pomfrey had threatened him with Skele-Grow if he broke even one more bone before Christmas. Hermione cried the last time she asked him to be more careful. The way she watched him . . . .

No. She hadn't guessed, not yet. And whatever he suggested, Ron just said, "Sure." Even when he really wanted Ron to say, "No. This is crazy. You're going to get us killed."

Coward. He mouthed the word. He couldn't say it out loud. At Hogwarts, what with the ghosts and the paintings and all, you always knew somebody might hear you.

Neville wasn't a coward. Every time he messed up he just tried again. Ron wasn't a coward. He lived with used robes and used books and a cauldron that was awfully thin on the bottom, as if he didn't even care that the Weasleys couldn't afford better. Hermione wasn't . . . .

"Hexpansus! Now over here I'll just transfigure the stool into a bed. That should give you plenty of room."

It sounded like McGonagall. Harry rolled over to peer out from the bedcurtain. At the same time he reached under his pillow for his wand. (Only a coward needed to keep his wand so close all the time, even in bed, even at Hogwarts. It had gone missing before though. Would anything be different if he hadn't let Winky steal it, or if he'd noticed earlier it was gone?)

"This isn't a good idea, Headmaster. What are they going to think? We should wait until daylight."

"The students are asleep. In the rush to get down to breakfast, they probably won't even notice a new boy in the dormitory."

Without his glasses, all Harry could see in the candlelight was three blurs. One blur was McGonagall shaped, and the other did look like Dumbledore. The third blur was smaller. McGonagall clucked.

"You look dead on your feet. Lie down. The House Elves will bring up your trunk, and you can get a few hours of sleep before breakfast."

"But . . . !"

"Relax. Minerva's right. Try to sleep for a while. Things will look better in the morning."

Dumbledore's voice was amused.

"I sincerely doubt it," the stranger said.

The Headmaster and the Head of Gryffindor made their way out as quietly as they'd arrived. Harry lay down again, and tried to think what this strange arrival meant. Did Hogwarts accept transfer students? He'd never heard of a student arriving after the year started, unless the contingents from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang counted. Hermione would know. Where had the boy come from?

"I know you're listening," the stranger said, conversationally.

How? Harry hadn't made a sound. He sat up, reached for the glasses on the table by his bed, and pushed aside the curtain.

"Uh, sorry. I wasn't eavesdropping or anything. I just . . . ."

"Of course you weren't," the boy drawled, making it plain he meant the opposite.

"Well, um, hi. Welcome to Gryffindor. I'm Harry, um . . . ."

He hesitated. He really hated the way people reacted when he introduced himself. The boy sneered. He had an unpleasant face.

"Don't bother. I am familiar with the appearance of the 'famous' Harry Potter."

Harry felt himself flush. Somebody else was reading all those newspaper articles. He started to cross his arms, and found he was still clutching his wand.

He slid it back under the pillow. The new boy's eyes followed a gesture Harry had tried to make unobtrusive. The thin lips quirked into a sneer that looked familiar. He was obviously from another Old Wizarding Family. Sharing the dormitory with him would be like sharing with Draco.

"What's your name then? Or do we get to choose one for you?"

The boy hesitated for long enough that Harry thought he would refuse to answer.

"Se-phiroth. Sephiroth Hence."

"Why are you just turning up now? The term's half over."

"Doubtless the headmaster will explain anything he wants you to know. In the morning. A few hours from now. McGonagall suggested I sleep. While I don't expect it will make any difference, I don't plan to waste those hours conversing with you. Good night."

He pulled his bedcurtains shut. Harry lay down himself. It was no use trying to figure out why the stranger was so rude. Purebloods were all like that. He'd started feeling sleepy when he heard that biting voice again.

"You should know, my person and possessions are well warded. Leave them alone, or you will regret it."

Harry put his head under his pillow, and poked his cheek on his own wand.

"Flobberworms!"


End file.
